


Long Haul

by Davechicken



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: He has to do something to keep himself occupied.





	

In hyperspace, there isn’t much to do. He’s not always accompanied, because he makes the same runs over and over. If it’s a new run, or if he’s going somewhere potentially dangerous, or carrying something very valuable… sure. But for the mundane trips, he’s alone with a ship that can only speak in terms of ‘refuel soon’ and ‘are you ready to press engage?’ and it is the _dullest thing ever_.

So he picked this job because it’s safe, so what? He’s a good enough pilot to fly more complicated craft and scenarios, but he doesn’t _want to_. He just wants an easy life.

Really, he wants to eat; have a roof over his head. Survive. And cargo pilot does that pretty damn well: Just fly. Land. Unload. Reload. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

(Usually. It’s mindless. Usually. Unless that scientist - Erso - is onboard.)

He isn’t thinking about him, or his treacherous implications. It’s all in _theory_. A word he keeps using. _Theory_. Theoretically speaking. Hypothetically speaking. It’s weasely ways of talking about concepts you shouldn’t, and Bodhi is just - he’s just a _pilot_. And things aren’t _that bad_ , surely?

Yeah. So.

Moving things. Things need moving. He needs a job. It’s not a crime.

He’s played the latest levels of _Kessel Krush_ about three times now, and he doesn’t feel like reading, or listening to music. He kind of just wants this trip over with, but rushing through his life isn’t healthy. He’s only got one, so he should find some way to enjoy it, right?

He slips onto the dark-holo client on his tablet, going round all the filters and the location locks on the Imperial system. This tablet is his only luxury and disobedience, but he figures everyone does it, so why not?

He flicks through sites, looking for something to take his mind off the utter emptiness of space. So much of it. So much gap between the light. Don’t look at the screen.

Bodhi finds a new holo from one of his favourite dancers. It’s on a site riddled with ads, but it’s better than paying. He flicks his thumb over it, and glances around - _knowing_ he’s alone - still needing to check no one watches his sin.

It’s… just normal. A libido. It’s normal, if frowned upon to admit you enjoy watching Twi’leks shimmying and flicking their lekku. He’s not sure why they’re so attractive, and he’s never even met a Twi’lek. He’s walked past them, but he doesn’t think he’s ever spoken to one. 

Are they all dancers? Or is it just that they keep their heads covered if they’re around?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he _wants_ to know. This way he can just enjoy the holos and pretend they aren’t people, can jerk it without wondering if the woman has to dance to feed herself. It’s a level of realism he’s not interested in, and he watches her thighs, her breasts, her hands. She accentuates her curves as she moves, and he grabs for the tissues and the hand lotion he keeps in the compartment to his left. Slicks some out over his hand, and starts to beat himself off.

There’s nothing special or romantic about this, nothing reverent. It’s just the flash of inner thigh that has him hard, the way she pushes her rump out and invites him to think about slipping his prick into her folds. Bodhi bites his lip (stop thinking about her job, stop thinking about the crystals, just think about sex) and thumbs roughly, a steady bounce of fist over shaft as he tries desperately to make it work. 

Blackness on the viewsc– _no_. The idea of her doing that dance here, for real. Flashing a hole he’ll never dock with. Teasing him with soft skin on his thighs, soft breasts on his lips. His eyes lid heavily at the fantasy, and he’s close, so close.

The dancer does the splits, and that’s - weirdly - what does it for him. The idea of her doing that, over him. Landing herself so hard they both rock, and his jizz splurts over his hand, splattering at the console, making a terrible mess.

Angry, almost, he turns the holo off and wipes it all up. 

It felt good, but he still can’t shake the bad taste in his mouth. 

Maker. Why did he have to go to Eadu? Why… three more hours to go. He’s going insane.


End file.
